The old man who lives across the road
Is standing on the bridge.
He looks as if he\'s searching the flowing water below
For something he\'s forgotten.
Some precious debris he should know,
A piece of the past dislodged from memory and time
Flowing back to where it belongs.
He raises his head and smiles at me,
A smile of broken porcelain,
half grin, half grimace.
The veins on his forehead trace a river
As fluid and delicate as the water below.
I see traces of my own memories in that pattern.
His smile is vague but his eyes are a secret blue.
They trace the history of his world
Unerringly to the beginning
To the genesis of this moment,
To the time when he was limber and could float through the air
With one leap and land as sure footed as a cat.
There\'s something sad about broken porcelain
When it has lost its shine,
it\'s strength
And purpose.
I stand beside him.
Together we watch the rippling surface.